President Clinton issued the first "Gay and Lesbian Pride Month" proclamation in 1999. President Obama declared June LGBT Pride Month in 2009, and President Biden declared June LGBTQ Pride Month in 2021.
It is time for President Trump to declare that no movement, organization, or individual should get recognition for a whole month. Having an overwhelming number of federal holidays, days, and full months to celebrate this, that, or the other cheapens our national holidays, which already honor veterans and those who gave their lives for this country, presidents, and historic holidays.
These are the groups currently proclaimed by various presidents as deserving of special status.
There is also:
May: National Military Appreciation Month
November: National Veterans and Military Families Month
Now, the Dept of Defense has declared:
June: PTSD Awareness Month
Of course, veterans deserve support, and those in the military with PTSD deserve the services from our healthcare system to heal. Everyone who has PTSD deserves support. However, another month designated for another group is just silly. It will do nothing actually to help those suffering from PTSD. However, it might make a bunch of bureaucrats in the DOD feel like they have accomplished something and give them another marketing campaign to spend tax payer’s dollars on.
At least nine months are officially recognized by U.S. presidents through proclamations to honor specific groups, with some months commemorating multiple groups.
This concept has gotten out of hand - and it is time to do away with the presidential proclamations of entire months for specific racial groups and/or groups of people with disabilities.
Furthermore, the government doesn’t need to accentuate our differences; the government needs to take pride in all Americans - as a nationality, citizenry, and a culture. We need to stop dividing Americans and start uniting them.
President Trump needs to sign a proclamation stating that all prior proclamations are null and void.
I will have less of a presence on The Torrid Tribe Community. We have very little activity here. This is a sign to me that members have found other social media resources that they are spending more time in. I am happy to see less censorship on social media in general. I started The Torrid Tribe 4 years ago when we were in a state of censorship and lockdowns. It was a difficult time and this was a haven and sanctuary for so many.
I will be lightly posting things here to give you all content to see. This community will always be open to everyone and will resurrect to its full capacity if subscribers show they want it fully operational again with full time administration.
Thank you for being a part of this community. Sending each of you hugs.
K-
Creator of The Torrid Tribe
Passion is the vibe that I want to bring to this community. I want to enjoy your passion for whatever it is you are into. Let's share what we learn - and learn what each other shares. Foodies unite. I love to cook and share recipes. I will regularly post pictures and recipes are available upon request. I would enjoy discussing your past, present and future journeys. Nature is God and Mother Earth's exquisite gift to us. Share a picture and we will enjoy the beauty through your eyes. Let's get deep and consensual with great subjective matter. This is a non judgemental safe place to let everything hang out.
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Thank you and hugs.
Torri
Johnny Carson’s producers were screaming in his earpiece to keep the show moving. He ignored them. He stepped off the stage, took a dying woman’s hand, and created a moment so human that NBC was forced to re-edit the entire episode.
It was March 17, 1983, inside Studio 6B in Burbank. The Tonight Show was rolling smoothly. St. Patrick’s Day energy filled the room. Johnny had just finished a playful monologue about green beer, and the band was setting up as he prepared to welcome his first guest, Sally Field.
Then the room shifted.
Barbara Martinez sat in the fourth row wearing a green dress that hung loosely on her fragile frame. She was forty-two, but aggressive ovarian cancer had aged her decades. Beside her sat her husband, Miguel, holding her hand tightly. On her other side was their seventeen-year-old daughter, Elena, doing everything she could not to cry.
Barbara had been told six months earlier that she had three weeks to live. She fought far beyond that. Two days before the show, her oncologist was blunt. Maybe forty-eight hours. Go home.
Barbara didn’t ...
